


Dress-Up

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Incest, M/M, Masturbation, costume play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron pretends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress-Up

He has never known the house so silent, so calm. His parents are gone, Ginny is visiting the Lovegoods; his brothers have each departed, one by until, until he's left alone to blink in the sudden glare. This silence and stillness could be unsettling, but he is too busy to notice.

He puts on the robe first, his first brand-new one in years: thick and black, no fuzzy nap or darns from years of wear. It fits him perfectly, but for someone used to tight collars and foreshortened sleeves, that's uncomfortable and strange. He fastens every tie, adjusts every crease until hangs perfectly, more like a drawing of a robe than a garment on a living boy. His hair is next, greased with pomade and combed flat in a mirror he nicked from his mum. It's some time before he achieves the severe part he remembers, but he manages it, ruler-straight and level across the side. He pins on his prefect's badge, polished to glaring, just where Hermione always tells him, adjusting until it lays straight.

He's almost ready.

He squeaks down the stairs in his best dress shoes, which are pinchy in the toes but look like new. The third-floor bedroom is dusty but neat, drawers shut and a few straggling books in stacks. Not even a blind rage could upset the order, not here. He used to steal those books, to crawl into that bed after a nightmare, and they're preserved like a memory in these four walls. He opens one door of the wardrobe and wipes dust from the mirror, then plants the desk chair in front of it. Then he draws from his pocket a pair of his father's old horn-rimmed glasses, ones he's punched the lenses out of, and carefully puts them on.

He steps in front of the chair, and looks up at Percy.

The illusion isn't perfect; his face isn't quite the same shape, and a year's Quidditch has left his shoulders a bit too broad and his skin too freckled, and his hands are too callused and scarred. But when he stands up straight and sets his jaw, he can convince himself, for now. He can see Percy before he fell, before he went off to the Ministry and came back a traitor, Prefect Percy who is everything their mother ever wanted. Perfect Percy who was all he ever wants. In the world defined by the frames on his face he's looking at the best of his brothers, inches away and nearly within reach.

(If he looks with his mind and not with his eyes, he can pretend that the hands are longer, more elegant and the hair is shorter on the sides. He can see features that are crafted of glass, sharper and finer than his own, and not nearly as mutable. A thinner frame—if that's possible—with a long neck, and a few pale freckles trailing down the back like footprints to follow. Narrow hips barely sketched by the belt of the robes. Long legs, concealed except during an unseemly sprint. A body more graceful than it appears, familiar and strange at once, and close, very close, just…)

He remembers the point of this charade, but here under Percy's judgmental gaze he can't quite bring himself to do it—his shame and self-disgust are all reflected in his brother's eyes. But it's that very disapproval that makes his heart beat faster and his breathing hitch, in the shower and under the sheets, a contempt to match his guilt over secret thoughts and deeds. He clears his throat, pitches his voice slightly higher, tries to breathe through his nose. "This is sick," Percy tells him. "This is wrong, you know, this is illegal."

But that doesn't stop the pressure, the pressure and pulsing and heat. Nothing ever can. Shutting his eyes, he opens his robes and reaches for his stiffening cock.

With his eyes shut, he can pretend Percy is touching him, although the hand is too familiar to be really convincing. Better to pretend he's touching Percy, then, gripping Percy's erection (because Percy's just too clean to have a cock or a dick or a stiffy). He drops into the chair and spreads his knees, hand moving steadily up and down his (Percy's) length and smearing the fluid at the tip. His other hand moves to his chest and Percy (he) strokes his (Percy's) nipple as he slides lower in the chair, halfway out of it but held up by quivering legs. His (Percy's) hips start to twitch upward involuntarily, as Percy (he) runs his thumb across the head of his (Percy's) penis with short, sharp movements. He's actually surprised when he moans out loud.

He opens his eyes then, shocked and aroused at what he sees: Percy half-slumped, pressed robes opened to a strip of white skin and red hair, pumping his dark erection with one hand while watching him. For that moment, the illusion is complete, and he jerks himself furiously as his brother does the same, unable to look away. Hand flying, breath hitching, squirming to thrust up into painful tight grip,and so fucking beautiful and clean, flushed, gasping, hair sweated from its style like a halo of fire, close, very close, almost, just, nearly within reach—

He falls off the chair when he comes, all over his hand, the mirror, the floor. The pain brings him back and laughs at him, reminding him of what just didn't happen. He looks at himself in the white-spattered mirror: sweaty, robes jumbled, hair stuck up on one side and false glasses barely clinging to his nose. His sleeves are rucked up, and he can see the scars that twist around his arms. Illusion shattered. He bows his head for the guilt and shame and hate, and the pain in his side keeps laughing.

Eventually he climbs to his feet, shuts the wardrobe, right the chair. He kicks off his pinchy shoes and wipes his hand on the duvet, and collapses into the bed where he used to seek refuge from nightmares.


End file.
